


Air and Fire

by DameRuth



Series: Concerning Smith and Jones [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24966112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: My own post-"42" take on why the Doctor might have been so very frightened.[Continuing the Teaspoon imports, originally posted 2007.05.27.]
Series: Concerning Smith and Jones [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805668
Kudos: 8





	Air and Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Having a long background of dabbling with such things as astrology, Medieval medical theory, and the Tarot, I'd long ago classified the Doc as having an obvious connection to the element of Air . . . which led me to the core idea of this snippet.
> 
> * * *

He was cold -- cold, cold, cold, _icy_ cold, with a chill that soaked into his bones like liquid nitrogen. He was frozen through, brittle, ready to snap with the slightest breath, the tiniest movement . . .  
  
Since there was nobody there to see him (except the TARDIS, and she saw everything, anyway), the Doctor wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, leaning one hip against the control panel, his eyes clenched tightly closed. Even with his coat on, it felt like he was back in that stasis chamber, hoarfrost crackling on his skin.  
  
The TARDIS, concerned, sang to him, and sent threads of golden light wisping through his thoughts, but it was too little fire, lost in the ice.  
  
Ironically, at the same time, he could feel the air on his skin, knew the temperature to be normal, understood that his body was functioning within the same parameters it always had . . . the cold was strictly in his mind, his hearts, with no real physical existence.  
  
But it still made him want to curl up around himself, reflexively seeking warmth . . . remembering Fire.  
  
Funny thing — nearly every species (well, those that evolved in an oxygen-based atmosphere, anyway) at some point in their scientific and technological development broke the Universe down conceptually into the same four “elements” — Earth, Air, Water . . . and Fire. Interestingly, the natures and attributes of those elements were remarkably consistent, or so he’d found over the years. Quite entertaining, really, especially when those elements were used to classify such intangible things as sentient personalities.  
  
Amused, he’d found himself classified again and again as a representative of Air by cultures that believed such things. After some initial indignation over being classified at all, he’d taken to it with fairly good humor — after all, if the shoe fit . . .  
  
He was the Wanderer, the Oncoming Storm, the breath of motion and change, born to a life of intellect and complexity. He was language and communication, artifice and subtlety — or so they told him, solemnly, listing off the nature of Air.  
  
He also had a natural affinity for Fire, they said.  
  
Entertaining as it was, he’d dismissed it all as an amusing fancy — until he’d met Rose. She was Fire personified: all bright hope and fierce will — fearless, warm, uncomplicated. She burned through life like a shooting star, focused and determined. She’d warmed him in ways he’d never expected, their natures complementing perfectly. It had made him wonder, sometimes, if maybe there wasn’t something to all the hand-waving of primitive science.  
  
Now he _knew_ \-- having met Fire itself, that single, concentrated force of which even a carbon-based life form as remarkable as Rose could only be a faint echo . . .  
  
It had hurt to burn, to have the heat of a star's core inside of him, raging and entire . . . but it had been warm. So very warm . . . warm enough to drive out the chill of losing Rose, the frozen knowledge of being the last of the Time Lords.  
  
He’d thought he hated fire, after his homeworld had burned by his own hand . . . but he hadn’t understood, then. He’d only seen Fire from outside, filtered through the perceptions of Air. Once he’d looked out over the surface of a sentient sun, had it take hold of his mind and fill him with itself, he’d comprehended.  
  
Fire had no regrets, no worries, no loss, no fear -- just light and heat and a glorious sense of single-minded purpose. Purpose that devoured the self, freed the mind, and consumed everything with its glorious, uncomplicated blaze.  
  
It had felt so _good._  
  
Even as he screamed with the pain, even as he twisted and fought, and begged Martha to freeze it out of him, he'd wanted that liberating Fire more than anything else, ever. Knowledge, life, love, hope . . . nothing had ever been so desirable as that intoxicating, purifying blaze. It would be so easy to let go, and fall — not into darkness but into light.  
  
All the complexity, all his doubts and schemes and words, all the subtle Air in him, set alight, burnt out in one eternal instant of complete _being_. . . what could be more perfect? And it was a gift he could share, a wonderful, glorious gift.  
  
_Burn with me, Martha, oh, burn with me — you’ll like it, you’ll_ love _it . . ._  
  
A long series of shudders wracked him, running the length of his spine, the muscles of his back and ribcage tightening involuntarily to the point where his breath trailed out an a low groan, the noise formed by the rush of air from his lungs, rather than by conscious will.  
  
The TARDIS sang concern and support at him, and he could sense the timeship’s deep confusion. Bound to him through ten lifetimes of symbiosis, she’d never felt anything like this from him, and it . . . frightened her.  
  
_A TARDIS, frightened?_ That shouldn’t be possible — it wasn’t the nature of her kind, or so he’d always been taught. Of course, look at how much of what he’d been taught, of what he’d known and believed over the years, had turned out to be absolute rubbish . . .  
  
He made himself inhale, uncurled a little, straightened, much as it hurt to do so, his soul-chilled self knotted and sore. He gritted his teeth against the scrape of joints, and made himself open his eyes. He shifted his hip away from the edge of the console, and rested his hands against it, instead, assuming a more typical stance.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said, reassuringly, speaking with as much conviction as he ever had — though having to say it the TARDIS, that was certainly new.  
  
The ship thrummed, unconvinced, and a flicker of electricity snapped across the facet of the console facing him, jumping like heat lightening between switches and gears. However, the TARDIS carefully kept it from touching him and stinging his fingers — a sure sign she was genuinely worried. On an ordinary day, she’d have just gone ahead and shocked him, to remind him he wasn’t necessarily the one in charge.  
  
“No, really,” he said, lying through his teeth, futile as it was -- and why was he bothering, and how could he ever shake this chill . . .?  
  
“Doctor?” For a dazed moment, he wondered if the TARDIS had somehow developed audio circuits, the tone of the question was so similar in timbre to the TARDIS’s silent concern and fear.  
  
Martha stepped around the central column, into his line of sight, and she looked more than a little scared.  
  
_Not nearly scared enough,_ he reflected, remembering how it felt to have his eyes filled with light from the _inside_ , ready to spill out and take her with him into the heart of a star . . .  
  
“Are you all right?” she continued, stopping several arms’ lengths away.  
  
_That_ question again. When would people stop asking it so he could stop lying?  
  
“’Course I am,” he told her, with a smile that felt rather ghastly, even to him. “Right as rain, fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, top of the world . . . help me out here, I’m sure there’re some similes I’m missing . . .”  
  
Without really thinking about it, he began to loosen up, to move around the console, checking readouts without seeing them, like some revenant going through the motions of life from beyond the grave. That was what it felt like, anyway — he certainly hoped it _looked_ more reassuring than that.  
  
Apparently it didn’t. Martha followed him, circling warily in his wake.  
  
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.  
  
“That’s ‘to whom’,” he told her, seeking to misdirect with pedantry, but her gaze was unwavering. “The TARDIS, of course,” he continued, since she wouldn’t be deflected.  
  
She accepted that, but she kept watching him, her gaze more thoughtful now than scared. He had a bad feeling he wasn’t fooling her at all. Martha was Air, like he was, and always had to question, to pick things apart to understand them. She was also observant by both nature and training, and not inclined to let things go.  
  
For once, though, she did, surprising him.  
  
“So, where to next?” she asked, moving a little closer, and smiling — unconvincingly, but he was wiling to give her points for effort.  
  
“Oooooohh, I don’t know, we could let the TARDIS pick . . .”  
  
“She can do that?” Martha asked, surprised.  
  
“Of course!’ The Doctor told her, in a good imitation of his usual indignation whenever anyone questioned the TARDIS’s abilities. “She does it often enough as it is, even when I tell her otherwise . . .”  
  
This time, the TARDIS didn’t spare him from the jolt of electricity she shot across the panel to the lever his hand rested on.  
  
“Ow!” he yelled, jerking his hand away and shaking it reflexively . . . and for just a second, the surprise and indignation were _real_ , more real than the ice in his hearts.  
  
“Right, then, just for that, _I’ll_ pick!” He shifted into motion, the act becoming less of an act as he moved through the familiar dance of setting coordinates and running controls meant for six pilots rather than one.  
  
Martha joined in, as best she could, flipping switches as directed and hanging on for dear life when necessary — which was often, since the TARDIS chose to give them a livelier ride than usual. Livelier than strictly necessary, the Doctor was certain, but with his blood pumping and his brain racing to keep ahead of the intricate currents and whirlpools of the Vortex, he found he didn’t mind.  
  
After a dazzling finale that involved him using all four limbs at once to manage the controls, they materialized with a jarring thump. Martha began clapping with appreciation, laughing at the sight of him up off the ground and splayed across three facets of the control console at the same time.  
  
He pushed off and landed neatly on his feet, sweeping a bow in Martha’s direction, flashing her a grin that was, in fact, almost entirely genuine.  
  
She shook her head, grinning back.  
  
“You’re on fire today,” she told him, admiringly, and turned to grab her leather jacket from the safety railing.  
  
The Doctor’s stomach tightened, and his smile fractured like ice that had been hit with a hammer.  
  
_Oh, I wish, I wish . . ._  
  
By the time Martha turned back to him, face bright and eager for whatever new experiences were to come, the Doctor had managed to regain his grin — or a close facsimile, anyway.  
  
For now, it would do.  
  
He offered her his arm, and together they went in search of adventure — or at least a good cup of tea . . .  


* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=12672>


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